


live to tell

by fallingintodivinity



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/pseuds/fallingintodivinity
Summary: After what'd happened the first time Jaskier had dragged Geralt to some kind of royal ball as his bodyguard, Geralt really should’ve known better than to agree to do it asecondtime.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 206
Kudos: 7270
Collections: witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [live to tell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316602) by [placid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/placid/pseuds/placid)



> This ship is eating my b r a i n

After what'd happened the first time Jaskier had dragged Geralt to some kind of royal ball as his bodyguard, Geralt really should’ve known better than to agree to do it a _second_ time.

He quietly curses his own stupidity all the way through Jaskier forcing him into a bath (again) then dressing him up in some kind of ridiculous leather-and-silk getup (also again). He momentarily forgets to be cross for the twenty minutes it takes Jaskier to decide whether he prefers Geralt’s tunic unbuttoned to the first or the second button, his slender fingers brushing warm and gentle against Geralt’s throat as he crowds close and fusses with the collar of the tunic, frowning intently at it.

Geralt finally has to shove Jaskier away, leaving his tunic unbuttoned to the first button, because having Jaskier so close for a prolonged amount of time is…is…it’s _distracting_ , damn it. The room Geralt had gotten at this inn is tiny, and Jaskier being right here, in his space, is making Geralt feel overly warm, heat prickling up the back of his neck, goosebumps raising all the hairs on his arms. He grimaces, tugging grouchily at the collar of the tunic with two fingers.

Jaskier, of course, notices Geralt fiddling with his collar. “Two buttons it is, then,” he declares cheerfully, then steps in close again and deftly unbuttons the second button on Geralt’s tunic.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

“Yes, yes. Patience, Geralt, I’m almost ready,” Jaskier says, then turns his back to Geralt and _takes off his shirt_.

“What,” Geralt says flatly, “are you _doing._ ”

Jaskier tosses him an incredulous look over his shoulder. “Changing into my best clothes, of course. Why, the Marquis de Beren would have me thrown out if I showed up at court in _these_ clothes.” He emphasizes his statement by taking off his trousers as well and letting them puddle on the floor, leaving him clad only in a pair of dark blue underpants.

Jaskier proceeds to root around vigorously in his pack, finally pulling out a spare set of clothes which, in Geralt’s opinion, look exactly the same as Jaskier’s regular clothes. To be fair, though, he isn’t actually paying that much attention to Jaskier’s _clothes_.

Geralt glares irritably at the smooth, pale skin of Jaskier’s back, and absolutely does _not_ notice the downy hair on the bard’s slim thighs as Jaskier steps into a fresh pair of trousers and tugs them up over his narrow hips. This situation is _entirely_ Jaskier’s fault and Geralt is still not sure why he agreed to any of it.

(It certainly has nothing to do with the way Jaskier smiled hopefully at him when he asked for Geralt’s help, or his wide eyes and wounded little pout when Geralt offered the helpful suggestion that being smacked around by a few nobles might teach Jaskier to be a little more discerning about who he decided to play hide-the-sausage with. No, indeed.)

***

Thanks to the popularity of Jaskier’s ballads, Geralt is, to his surprise and disgust, rather in demand at court. He spends the first part of the evening fending off requests from various nobles for stories of harpies or succubi or kikimora, finally breathing a sigh of relief when the servants begin to seat the guests for the banquet.

Geralt gets seated between two young, comely ladies who spend most of the banquet flirting with him. It’s not exactly a hardship to let them lean on his shoulder, batting their eyelashes up at him coquettishly and feeding him sliced fruit, pressing their slender fingers, sweet and sticky with fruit nectar, to his lips, but somehow his heart isn’t quite in it and he doesn’t care to examine too closely why.

He’s seated directly opposite from where Jaskier is playing his lute at the other end of the banquet hall. Jaskier keeps darting quick, furtive looks over at Geralt as he sings, an unreadable expression on his face, until Geralt finally catches the bard’s eye and raises an eyebrow questioningly at him. Jaskier smiles weakly back, then looks away quickly.

Jaskier doesn’t look at Geralt once during the rest of his performance. And if Geralt spends the rest of the meal glaring into his wine and ignoring the ladies sitting on either side of him despite their increasingly bold flirtations, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

***

After dinner, there is dancing. Geralt does not enjoy dancing.

He dodges numerous requests to dance and parks himself in a corner, half hidden by some monstrosity of a sculpture that the Marquis de Beren apparently considers art. Jaskier, performance completed to rapturous applause, has disappeared off to parts unknown.

It’s only when Geralt ventures out to the patio – right by the open doors that lead to the Marquis’s gardens – to refill his goblet, that he spots Jaskier again. The bard is a little ways outside, standing by one of the shrubs that form part of the garden’s tall hedges. He’s half-turned away from Geralt, speaking to someone standing in the shadow of the hedge. Moonlight glints off his dark hair, turning his gilded clothing silvery and illuminating the small, tentative half-smile on his face, and Geralt swallows hard, breath catching in his throat. Goblet in hand, he turns toward the gardens and takes a step forward.

Just then, Jaskier’s companion steps out from the shadow of the hedge. It’s one of the ladies who’d been at the banquet earlier, sitting near the end of the table Geralt had been at. She’s beautiful, with dark eyes and long blonde hair.

The lady sidles up to Jaskier, winding her arms about his neck and pressing up against him, smiling up at him seductively. Geralt blinks; what had he been _thinking?_ Jaskier’s clearly doing fine – _more_ than fine without him.

Scowling, Geralt turns away, completely missing the way Jaskier freezes, smiles faintly then gently disentangles himself from his would-be paramour, stepping back to arm’s length. Geralt, meanwhile, drains the goblet he’s holding in one long swallow, puts the empty goblet down on the nearest side table and stomps back to his corner behind the hideous sculpture.

He’s still tucked away there, silently brooding, when a nobleman he’d been introduced to earlier, Lord something-or-other, storms past him and out into the gardens. Geralt is so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize that the man is heading for Jaskier and his lady until the man’s actually standing in front of them, waving his hands and yelling and generally kicking up a fuss.

Geralt leans forward, peering around the side of the patio door for a better look. Jaskier is grimacing, hands up in the universal _who, me?_ gesture, while the lady looks unrepentant.

Geralt sighs deeply and resignedly and pushes himself off the wall. He heads out to the group and arrives right in the middle of the lord’s tirade about Jaskier apparently trying to seduce his wife.

“Ah, Geralt!” Jaskier interrupts the nobleman, looking decidedly relieved. He beams happily at Geralt, who has to fight not to smile back. Damn it.

“Pardon me, my lord,” Geralt says politely, turning to address Lord something-or-other. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. Jaskier here was merely having an innocent conversation with your wife.”

“Oh?” snaps the nobleman huffily. “And how do _you_ know, witcher? Can you provide me with proof?”

“I know because,” Geralt says calmly, and he blames his next words on temporary insanity, because _what the hell_. “He would never be false to me.”

Jaskier looks completely taken aback, cheeks pink and mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. A long, awkward silence falls as both the nobleman and his wife look dubiously between Geralt and Jaskier.

“Um,” Jaskier manages eventually, rallying. “Y-yes, of course, that’s true! My heart belongs only to Geralt.” He lays one hand over his heart, radiating sincerity.

“Hmph,” the nobleman snaps huffily. “Well, your heart’s all well and good, but make sure you keep all your _other_ body parts away from my wife, too.” With that parting shot, he storms back to the banquet hall with his disappointed wife in tow, leaving Geralt alone in the garden with Jaskier.

Jaskier is still staring at Geralt. He seems, uncharacteristically, to be at a complete loss for words, mouth open and face still bright red.

When the silence finally approaches the wrong side of unbearable, Geralt clears his throat. “Try not to have _too_ much fun,” he grunts, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I can’t be around _all_ the time to save you.”

Jaskier scowls back at Geralt, finally seeming to regain his footing. “ _You,_ ” he retorts sourly, “looked like you were having a lot of fun at the banquet.” He looks away, mouth pulled down in an unhappy frown.

Geralt looks at him, puzzled at his tone, until in one glorious, blazing moment, he realizes that Jaskier had been watching the ladies seated with Geralt flirt with him during the banquet, and that Jaskier is _jealous._

There’s a pause where Geralt’s groping for the right words and Jaskier visibly panics and forces his mouth into a rictus of a smile, then blurts out “did you – ”

“Are you – ” Geralt says at the same time.

Jaskier falls silent and looks down, blushing hotly. Geralt reaches a hand out, tipping Jaskier’s chin up gently.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says uncertainly, voice hoarse.

Geralt slides his hand up to cup Jaskier’s face. “Jaskier,” he says, low.

“Please,” Jaskier whispers, lips parting. Geralt leans down, close enough that he can feel Jaskier’s breath warm across his lips, then –

– the sound of voices nearby, accompanied by footsteps moving in their direction, makes them jump apart hastily.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, rubbing a hand across his face.


	2. Chapter 2

The footsteps draw nearer, finally stopping on the other side of the tall hedge that Geralt and Jaskier are standing by. Through the thick mass of leaves, Geralt can just make out the silhouettes of three men, clad in rich velvet and exquisite silks of pale green and gold. Their heads are bent together in furtive conversation, voices hushed and urgent.

He and Jaskier haven’t yet been noticed. Geralt is all for making themselves scarce; he has no interest in eavesdropping on whatever political scheming is taking place here, _especially_ not when Jaskier is darting these little sideways glances at him, barely disguised heat and hunger in his gaze, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips.

God, Geralt wants him, badly.

He catches Jaskier’s eye and jerks his head toward the furthest edge of the Marquis’s gardens, past the hedge maze. Jaskier will have to stay till the end of the ball to collect his coin for his performance, but there’s no reason either of them have to actually _be at_ the ball in the interim – and Geralt has a feeling that Jaskier is as eager to get out of there as Geralt himself is.

Jaskier immediately nods, his entire face lighting up, and Geralt has to bite back a grin in response. The bard turns toward the edge of the gardens, Geralt following behind him, but they’ve only made it two steps when Jaskier stills suddenly and cocks his head to one side, birdlike. He frowns, squinting through the minute gaps in the thick hedge, then turns to lay a hand urgently on Geralt’s arm.

“Geralt, did you hear that?” he whispers.

“What?” Geralt says blankly. He seems to be having some difficulty tearing his gaze from Jaskier’s mouth.

“Shh!” Jaskier hisses, then notices Geralt staring at him and promptly goes bright pink again. Wordlessly, he gestures to the hedge, where the three noblemen are still talking in low voices. Thankfully, the men don’t seem to have heard them, even though Geralt hadn’t bothered keeping his voice down.

Reluctantly, Geralt focuses on the discussion going on on the other side of the hedge. From the snatches of conversation that he picks up, it becomes apparent that the three men are making plans to abduct Lady de Beren – Marquis de Beren’s daughter – later that evening, to force the Marquis to vote against passing a new law, scheduled to be debated on the following day, which would allow the city to distribute more grain to the poorer outer estates, leaving less for theirs.

Beside him, Jaskier shifts closer. “The man on the left,” he murmurs quietly, breath warm against Geralt’s ear. “That’s Lord Pellsham. He and Lady de Beren are betrothed.”

“Hm,” Geralt mutters back, eyeing the young Lord Pellsham with disfavor. “So it would be trivial for him to set up a rendezvous with Lady de Beren tonight and have her abducted then.” He grimaces. Monsters, he can deal with, but the cruelty and pettiness of humanity still manage to surprise him, sometimes.

They linger behind the hedge until the three noblemen finish their furtive discussion and return to the ball. When they’re alone again, Geralt sourly eyes Jaskier, who’s staring back at him expectantly.

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “I do _not,_ ” he snaps, before Jaskier can say a word, “get involved in the petty politics of the nobility.”

“Mm,” Jaskier says knowingly. “Yes, I’m _so_ very sure you’ll walk away and let an innocent lady get kidnapped so that people in the outer estates can starve.”

Geralt glares fiercely at him. Jaskier smiles innocently back.

Geralt sighs. “I’m not killing anyone,” he says.

Jaskier beams. “Yes, alright,” he says placatingly. “Let’s go be heroes, then.” He proceeds to _take Geralt’s hand_ and leads him back toward the banquet hall.

Geralt rubs his other hand wearily over his face. He doesn’t let Jaskier’s hand go.

***

They find Lady de Beren sitting at one of the banquet tables, getting her goblet of wine refilled by a servant. She appears to be around the same age as Jaskier, slender and beautiful, with long brown hair reaching halfway down her back. When she sees Jaskier, she smiles brightly, stretching a hand out to him.

“Lady de Beren,” Jaskier says with a charming smile and a bow, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.

“Jaskier,” the lady says. “Oh, it’s been too long!” She looks up at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I’ve missed you so.”

“And I, you,” Jaskier says gallantly as Geralt eyes the two of them askance. He has a strong suspicion that this particular young lady is on the list of nobles with whom Jaskier has played hide-the-sausage, and has to fight the unreasonable urge to scowl at her.

“This,” Jaskier says to the lady, turning to gesture to Geralt, “is my friend, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Oh!” Lady de Beren says. She smiles at Geralt with disarming frankness. “Hello, Geralt of Rivia.”

“My lady,” Geralt says. “I apologize for the abruptness, but there is a matter of some importance that we need to speak with you about urgently. Is there somewhere more private where we may speak freely?”

Lady de Beren looks surprised, but with a nod from Jaskier, she gets to her feet. “Of course. Please come this way.”

“Geralt, stop glaring at Lady de Beren,” Jaskier murmurs, falling back to elbow Geralt in the side as the lady in question leads them out of the banquet hall. He grins mischievously, then adds, low and flirty, “after all, my heart belongs only to you.”

Geralt turns his glare on Jaskier instead.

***

While Lady de Beren obviously likes and trusts Jaskier, she’s reluctant to believe that her betrothed is planning to have her kidnapped – which is fair, as they haven’t any proof to offer her. Instead, Geralt suggests that he and Jaskier accompany the lady to her rendezvous with Lord Pellsham later that evening, just as a precaution.

When they reach the gazebo where Lord Pellsham had asked Lady de Beren to meet him, the young lord is already there, along with three men discreetly hiding in the bushes behind the gazebo. The men are not particularly well hidden; clearly they hadn’t expected Lady de Beren to have any reason for suspicion – or to have an escort, for that matter.

“Well, well,” says Lady de Beren. There’s both anger and disappointment in her gaze as she storms up to her betrothed in the gazebo, Geralt and Jaskier following close behind her.

When confronted, Lord Pellsham doesn’t even put up a fight; he obviously hadn’t expected any of this. Under Lady de Beren’s furious glare, he confesses the entire plot; meanwhile, the three men hidden in the bushes exchange uncertain glances, then look over at the group.

Geralt slowly and deliberately draws his swords, and waits. The men balk and slip back into the bushes.

After Lady de Beren has told Lord Pellsham, coldly and succinctly, exactly what she thinks of him, and then broken off their engagement, Geralt and Jaskier offer to escort her back to her room, an offer which she accepts.

As Lady de Beren leads the way back to her room, Jaskier falls back a little, glancing expectantly at Geralt. Geralt slows his pace to walk next to Jaskier, looking at him questioningly.

“Nice touch there with the swords, and the scary face,” Jaskier murmurs coyly. “Very dashing.” He smiles up at Geralt, an invitation.

Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier. He glances from the bard, to Lady de Beren, who’s walking a few paces in front of them, then back to Jaskier. “Tease me _one more time_ ,” he growls under his breath, “and I’ll fuck you _right here_ , lady or no.”

Jaskier swallows hard, throat working. His eyes are wide and dark, the cornflower blue of his irises just a thin ring around his pupils. “That,” he whispers, “had better be a promise.”

Both men start as Lady de Beren turns around abruptly, and she gives them an odd look. “Well, this is my room,” she says. “Thank you both very much – you’ve done me a great service.”

Lady de Beren tries to press a reward of coin and precious gems on them; when they refuse, she tells Geralt that he’ll always be welcome at their estate, and promises Jaskier that she’ll have her father invite him to perform at all their functions.

“Oh!” she adds. “That reminds me – I really should go tell Father that I’m no longer getting married.” She laughs ruefully. “He never really liked Lord Pellsham anyway, so he’s not going to be terribly unhappy about this.” She nods at both men, a small smile on her face. “Thank you both, again – I truly am grateful.”

To Geralt’s surprise, the lady then turns to him, taking both of his hands in hers. “Do take care of Jaskier,” she says earnestly. “I hope you two will be very happy together.” Geralt blinks at her. Next to him, Jaskier stifles a small, nervous cough.

With a final wave and smile, Lady de Beren leaves to look for her father.

“Does court gossip really spread _that_ fast,” Geralt mutters.

“Faster,” says Jaskier. “They’ll all have known ten minutes after your, er, declaration.”

Geralt sighs.

“Well, anyway,” Jaskier says. “All’s well that ends well!” He beams up at Geralt, smiling and flushed, the flickering torches in their wall sconces casting dancing shadows across his face and shading his pale skin a soft gold, and Geralt abruptly wants to kiss him so fucking badly he _aches_ with it.

Geralt eyes Jaskier thoughtfully. He glances left, then right; the corridor is deserted. In one quick motion, he opens Lady de Beren’s bedroom door, grabs Jaskier by the front of his ridiculous ruffled shirt and shoves him into the empty bedroom, then follows him in. Jaskier makes a startled sound, his bright blue eyes going wide, then one corner of his mouth starts tugging upward as Geralt shuts the door firmly behind them and pulls the bolt across.

“I’ve been waiting _all night_ to do this,” Geralt tells him, crowding the bard up against the heavy wood door, bracing himself against it with one hand. He leans down as Jaskier surges up to meet him, the bard’s fingers tangling in Geralt’s hair and lips parting as Geralt licks into his mouth.

They kiss until they’re both breathless, hips rolling helplessly against each other, Jaskier a hot hard line against him. Jaskier’s silk shirt gets hopelessly crumpled when Geralt yanks it up to hungrily slide his hand over the graceful curve of Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier’s slender fingers, usually so clever with his lute, fumble clumsily at the buttons on Geralt’s tunic, tugging the garment open as Geralt pulls Jaskier’s trousers down over his slender hips, freeing his cock, thick and beautifully flushed. He wraps his hand around Jaskier’s cock, swallowing the bard’s moans as his hips jerk up, pushing his cock further into the circle of Geralt’s hand.

“ _Oh._ ” Jaskier tosses his head back against the door with an audible thump as Geralt kisses down his jaw then mouths at his neck, sucking livid bruises into his pale skin. With his free hand, Geralt gropes blindly at the vanity next to the door, shoving aside Lady de Beren’s assorted boxes of powders and eyeliner and rouge, until he feels the bottle he’d seen earlier – when they’d first entered the room – beneath his fingers.

He has to momentarily take his other hand off Jaskier’s cock so he can fumble the bottle open. While he’s thus occupied, Jaskier bends over to pull his boots off, then hurriedly shoves his trousers and underpants all the way down and kicks them off. Geralt almost drops the bottle when Jaskier impatiently pulls Geralt’s trousers and shorts down and wraps his clever fingers firmly around Geralt’s cock.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt pants, spilling rose-scented oil all over his fingers and Jaskier’s shirt when Jaskier thumbs the tip of his leaking cock, smearing precome all over the head. Jaskier strokes him again root to tip, firm and hot and perfect, pulling a low groan from Geralt’s throat. He grins up at Geralt breathless and impudent when Geralt thrusts helplessly into his fist, the brat.

Geralt sucks in a deep breath and raises an eyebrow at him in response, then bends, gets his hands under Jaskier’s bare thighs and _lifts_.

“Oh, oh _god_ ,” Jaskier says, strangled, as Geralt heaves him up so that they’re pressed together chest to hip, his bare feet dangling as Geralt takes all of his weight, arms wrapped around Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier’s hard cock, trapped between their bodies, jerks, smearing precome over Geralt’s stomach.

“God, _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier pants. “That’s…you…” He seemingly gives up on forming words entirely and wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, locking his legs behind Geralt’s back. He kisses Geralt again hard and hot as Geralt takes a step forward, pressing Jaskier against the door so that he can free one hand – the one which he’d poured oil over – to reach down and press a finger gently to Jaskier’s hole.

Jaskier whines into Geralt’s mouth as Geralt presses one finger into the tight heat of the bard’s body, his hips hitching, rubbing his cock against Geralt’s belly. The hot drag of Jaskier around his finger makes Geralt’s neglected cock throb, dribbling a spurt of precome; he’s so hard it fucking _hurts_. He can’t remember wanting someone this badly, ever.

He’s still careful to take his time to prepare Jaskier, not wanting to hurt the bard, but when Jaskier, contrary as ever, starts squirming on his fingers, urging him, “come on, Geralt, I’m ready, will you just _fuck me_ – ” it frays the remnants of Geralt’s already tenuous self-control and he pulls his fingers out, stifling Jaskier’s moan with another kiss.

He hurriedly slicks his cock up with more of the rose-scented oil then pushes slowly into Jaskier, all the air in his body pushed out in a gasp as he’s enveloped in the welcoming heat of Jaskier’s body, tight and perfect around his aching cock. Jaskier’s heels dig into his back as the bard moves with him, thighs flexing, fingers tangling in Geralt’s hair and tugging almost to the point of pain.

“Yes, Geralt, oh – ” Jaskier pants as Geralt thrusts into him, then, “ah! Oh, _god,_ ” as Geralt finds the spot inside him that makes Jaskier moan and shiver and arch against him. He makes sure to keep that same angle as he thrusts hard and fast, Jaskier moving with him, arms wound about his shoulders and thighs wrapped around his hips, and god, it’s fucking _perfect_.

“Fuck,” he moans. “Oh, fuck, Jaskier, you feel good.”

“ _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier almost sobs, then his cock jerks between them and stripes of wet heat spurt over Geralt’s stomach, and, _god_ – Jaskier’s _coming_ , just like that, without Geralt putting a hand on him – then Jaskier’s fingers clench in Geralt’s hair, and he _pulls_ – and Geralt comes so hard that he can’t breathe for a long moment, shuddering helplessly as he pumps his release into Jaskier’s body.

***

“Pull up your collar a bit more,” Geralt advises comfortably, lounging against Lady de Beren’s bedroom wall.

Jaskier scowls at him. “It won’t go up any further!” he says, yanking futilely at his shirt. He peers into the mirror on the vanity again. The marks Geralt left on his neck stand out starkly on his pale skin, livid purple bruises in the exact shape of Geralt’s mouth.

“I didn’t hear any complaints half an hour ago,” Geralt tells him.

“That’s not the point!” Jaskier says, pouting. He looks freshly ravished; his hair is a mess, neck kiss-bruised, silk shirt hopelessly creased and stained with oil. He smells strongly of roses. Geralt grins at him. Jaskier blushes, then smiles back helplessly.

“I can’t present myself to Marquis de Beren looking like _this_ ,” Jaskier says.

“Probably not,” Geralt says cheerfully. “Come on, we’ll sneak out the servant’s quarters and head to the inn. I’ll come back with you tomorrow to collect your coin.” He raises his eyebrows at Jaskier invitingly. “I’ll even let you share my bath.”

Jaskier grins. “Well, alright,” he says. “If I _must._ ”

End.


End file.
